My first day at the camp probably couldn’t be stranger. At least it’s quick. After our exercises, the kids start to arrive. There’s a big dinner with the families, and then my speech. By the time the evening reception is over, it’s lights out for the kids.
I’m almost grateful when Katya goes to bed early, too, leaving me with the guys for a couple hours of poker and talking. I don’t have to admit to her that she was right about the speech. Maybe she’s right about me being too detached. I never thought of it that way, but there is a great deal of distance between me and pretty much everyone else.
I guess it’s my comfort zone. I never really thought of it as an issue before she pointed out that I’m always alone. Is that really so bad, given my line of work? I’ll never be able to forgive myself for the four guys I lost a few months back. If my guard was lower, how could I live with myself, if it happened again?
Like every other conversation with her, Katya somehow manages to make my head spin in a direction I’m not used to. I spend an hour with the guys before heading back to the barracks. Being with them leaves me relaxed, the opposite of Katya’s effect on me. Being around her leaves me oddly energized yet also unusually drained, as if our mental grappling is taxing our bodies as well.
Stepping out of the warm night into the barracks, I’m pleased to see that the kids are out cold, and so is she. Silently, I prepare for bed, irked to discover her lotion on top of my dresser when she’s got space on hers. Her shoes are in the middle of the floor, her suitcase open at the foot of her bed. She’s taken over the bathroom, too. Everything I need is confined to one small bathroom bag.
Katya’s shit spills over the tiny sink area, and there are fluffy pink towels hanging beside my military issued olive, sandpapery one. The bathtub is littered with no less than five bottles and one of those pink scrubby-loofa things.
One week, I remind myself. Seeing the disaster that is our room makes me itchy. Clean, neat and orderly – it’s how I like to live. Battle is messy, a place where adapting is a matter of survival. Here, at home or wherever I’m sleeping at night, I can control my immediate surroundings, even if that’s nothing more than keeping my weapon at my side or a canteen by my head.
“Civilians.” I survey the bathroom again then decide that no, I really can’t live like this.
Within five minutes, I’ve got her shit straightened or put away, the towels folded correctly, and the bottles in the shower corralled in the basket hanging over the showerhead. When it’s neat once more, I automatically relax. I can pretend the rest of the room isn’t an issue in the dark.
I go to bed mostly satisfied but also too aware of the woman sleeping six feet from me in her fluffy comforter. She’s the kind of complicated I don’t need in life. I’m not sure I want to know more about her, though I’m not sure I’ll have the choice after a week with her.
If there’s anyone I should keep distant from, it’s her. That much I know, even if I’m not yet sure why.
***
My alarm goes off at five, an hour before sunrise. It’s the time I always get up. From what I’ve read about kids, controlling them is dependent on managing their energy levels. Which means, before our day officially starts, we’re going to do some drills.
I roll out of bed, refreshed and ready for the first full day of camp.
“Katya,” I call quietly. “Lights on.”
I give her a minute and go to the bathroom to change and get ready. When I return, I flip on the lights.
She hasn’t moved.
“Katya,” I say more loudly. “Time to get up!”
“What?” she replies sleepily, and pulls a pillow over her head. “What time is it?”
“Five.”
“We don’t have to be at breakfast until eight.”
“Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
“No way.”
Why do I have a feeling she’s going to be harder to manage than the six kids we’re assigned?
Rather than arguing, I go out to wake up everyone else. The light going on wakes half the kids. Pulling out my phone, I flip through my music files, turn up the volume, and blast Reveille.
The piercing, quick-paced bugle song can wake a man from the dead. Its effect is immediate.
The kids bound up.
I hit pause. “Good morning, team,” I start. “You have ten minutes to get ready and be outside in a line, tallest to shortest. Understood?”
They’re staring at me. A few nod.
“Understood?” I repeat in sharper tone.
“Yes, Captain Mathis,” two chirp. Their words are echoed by others.
The team gets up, grabbing their clothing and bathroom bags in varying degrees of urgency and head out of the barracks to the community bathrooms located at the center of the barracks.
Except one. We have a range of kids in our group, from the sixteen-year-old girl and boy, to the six-year-old girl still sitting in her bed. She’s blinking back tears, and I wait.
“You, too, Jenna,” I tell her firmly.
“I can’t.”
Clasping my hands behind my back, I approach her bed.
“Why can’t – oh, Jesus.” Her bed reeks of urine.
The tears start.
I sit down on the bed opposite her, frowning. “You’re six. You’re too old to be wetting the bed.” At least according to my research she is.
“I d…didn’t mean t…to.” She sniffles pitifully.
“We may need to call your mother. I’m not sure this is going to work out,” I say.
“My mother is … dead.”
Fuck. I read the list of kids and their issues last night five times. I don’t remember her mother being mentioned as the one killed in battle. In fact, I know it wasn’t on the sheet. Her father died last year in Afghanistan.
Jenna’s wail makes me jerk. I sit, frozen, debating how to handle her. I know how to deal with Marines who get scared in battle or those who have medical issues. But they’re not six.
“Holy hell, Sawyer. What did you do?” Katya hurries into the bay. Blinking but awake, she’s in a t-shirt and underwear, eyes on the screaming kid. Without waiting for a response, she crouches down in the space between me and the kid, her long, wild hair brushing my forearms. There’s something insanely sexy about her mussed state.
Jenna points to the bed and keeps sobbing.
I grimace.
“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Katya’s voice is cheerful, and she stands, picking up Jenna. Immediately, the little girl starts to calm.
“Ten minutes,” I call after her. “Workout attire.”
Katya shoots me a dirty look over her shoulder but doesn’t respond. She walks back towards our room, completely unaware of how fucking sexy she is in her underwear. My eyes travel down her body, lingering on the rounds of her ass, visible beneath the boy short-style underwear, and down her shapely thighs. She’s toned in a way that says she does yoga or Pilates, definitely not in the way of a hardcore athlete.
She has a small limp, one I hadn’t noticed before, either. I don’t see anything wrong with her shapely legs but don’t wonder about it too long, because I’m not the only one staring at her.
The sixteen-year-old boy, the oldest on our team, is frozen in the doorway of the barracks. His jaw is slack, his eyes wide as he stares at her ass.
“I forgot my … my …” He stops.
“Turn around, and go to the showers,” I order.
He’s still staring.
“Now,” I bark.
The kid stumbles away from the door. I watch, understanding exactly what he’s thinking at the moment.
Within about fifteen minutes, all five of them are outside, standing in a line as directed. A little antsy – or maybe cold – they don’t seem to be capable of standing still.
Not that I care at this point. I don’t need perfection from a bunch of untrained civilians, just effort. I walk around them and send in those who forgot water or in one case, meds, to retrieve them.
At the twenty-minute mark, Jenna dashes out of the barracks and assumes her spot at the end of the line. She’s clean, dressed and carrying her water like she’s supposed to.
“Where’s Ms. Khavalov?” I ask her.
“She’s not ready yet.”
How does a bed wetting six-year-old show up a full-grown woman?
“Tanner, move out to the pit,” I instruct the oldest boy. “Stay in a line. No one leaves the trail. Understood?”
More yes, captain and yes, sir mumbles. The kids turn and begin walking.
I trot inside. The door to our room is closed, so I knock. “You almost ready?”
“Yes!”
By her tone, I’m in for a hell of a morning. I can’t help smiling at the amount of resentment I hear.
“We’ll be at the pit. Don’t forget your water. Grommets out,” I respond. I don’t stick around to learn how well she can throw shoes but join the kids and continue walking with them in the dark to the pit, a large area with a soft layer of woodchips. In the Corps, we use a place like this for any number of drills, from combat arms training to morning push-ups to accountability formations.
“We’ll start with some jumping jacks,” I tell the kids. “Ready? Start!”
“Starting them young and early, I see,” a female voice teases from behind me.
I turn to see Captain Harper, dressed for a run. We’ve worked together for about six months, and she’s never failed my team, no matter what I’ve asked of her. The opposite of Katya, she’s disciplined and motivated. I always enjoy talking to her. It’s easy to be around someone with similar priorities and values.
Something I didn’t realize until trying to understand Katya more. The friction I feel dealing with Khav’s sister isn’t here, and it’s kinda nice not to have it hanging over my head.
“You want me to give you a hand?” Captain Harper asks.
“Sure.”